Derek had always been sensitive about money—especially my family’s wealth. I used to think it came from pride. Lately it felt more like resentment.
The next morning he burst into my office without warning, brushing past the receptionist. He walked straight in and slammed his hand down on my desk.
“Give me the keys.”
I stared at him. “What are you doing here?”
“The sports car,” he snapped. “Your parents gave it to us. That car belongs to me too.”
“It’s titled to me,” I said evenly. “And it’s not even at the house.”
His eyes narrowed. “So you’re hiding it.”
“I’m keeping it safe at the dealership.”
He scoffed loudly. “Do you have any idea how this makes me look? My coworkers are going to see you driving a supercar while I’m stuck in my Audi. People talk.”
“I’m not structuring my life around your coworkers,” I replied.
His face flushed red. He grabbed the anniversary box from my desk and shook it as if something else might fall out. When he realized the fob was the only thing inside, he leaned closer and hissed,
“You’ll regret embarrassing me.”
Then he turned and stormed out.
I forced myself to continue my meetings, but my stomach stayed tight all afternoon.
A few hours later, my phone rang.
Derek.
I answered, expecting another argument.
Instead, he laughed—loud and triumphant.
“I burned your dream sports car, Sam.”
My blood went cold.
“What did you just say?”
“I’m at the house,” he continued, laughing again. “You wanted to keep it from me? Now nobody gets it.”
I grabbed my keys and ran.
The entire drive home, images flooded my mind—yellow paint melting under flames, the call I would have to make to my father, Derek standing smugly in the driveway.
When I turned onto our street, I saw the smoke first.
Thick gray clouds rising above the houses.
Then flashing emergency lights.
A fire truck blocked part of the road. Neighbors stood outside recording with their phones while heat shimmered above the pavement.
In my driveway, a yellow sports car was completely engulfed in flames.
Derek stood on the lawn, arms folded, watching me like he had just won.
I stumbled out of my car, my breath uneven.
Then I saw the license plate.
It wasn’t mine.
It belonged to Derek.
Before I could stop it, laughter burst out of me—loud and uncontrollable—just as a firefighter looked up and asked,
“Ma’am… whose car is this?”
The question lingered awkwardly in the smoky air.
Derek’s confident grin faltered when I kept laughing. It wasn’t happiness—it was disbelief. A grown man had set a car on fire simply to punish his wife.
“That’s my husband’s vehicle,” I said finally, forcing my voice to steady. “Registered to Derek Caldwell.”
A police officer stepped closer. “Ma’am, are you saying you didn’t do this?”
“He called me and said he did,” I replied, pointing directly at Derek.
Derek immediately snapped, “She’s lying! It’s her car! Her parents bought it. She’s trying to blame me.”
I inhaled slowly. “The Lamborghini my parents gave me is still at the dealership. Here’s the contract and the dealer’s address.”
I pulled the paperwork from my purse and handed it over.
Another officer motioned Derek aside. “Sir, come over here.”
“It was a prank,” Derek said quickly. “A stupid anniversary prank.”
“Pranks don’t involve accelerant,” the officer replied calmly, glancing toward the driveway where a fire investigator was already inspecting the scene.
The investigator requested the footage from our porch camera.
Ironically, Derek had installed those cameras himself. He called them security. I had always thought they felt more like control.
Now they were evidence.
We watched the clip together on my phone.
Derek pulled a gas can out from the garage. He walked around the car, splashing fuel across the hood. Then he flicked a lighter.
His face was perfectly visible beneath the porch light.
Derek stared at the screen in stunned silence.
“You recorded me,” he muttered.
“You recorded yourself,” I replied.
The investigator spoke calmly. “Sir, you’re coming with us.”
Derek suddenly lunged toward me, trying to snatch my phone. An officer immediately intercepted him. During the scuffle his key ring struck the pavement, and a small insurance tag slipped loose.
I picked it up instinctively.
The tag showed a policy number and the words:
“Full coverage effective today.”
My stomach sank.
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